Let's Have a Talk About It - VAMPIRE [1-15-2026]
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The Confessor Returns
Date: [1-15-2026] -- Oct, 2014
Location: Underneath one of the Prince's buildings in a renovated area meant to jail kindredPlayer Characters Present: Vanda, Sarah Sawara
Open Spots: 0NPCs Present: Mr O'Reilly
Current Scenario: The Carthian was caught by the Prince's sherriff and needs to be questioned. The Prince wants Bishop Morrow to prove himself useful and handle this. The Bishop asked Vanda in exchange for the favors she has asked upon entering the city.
Suggested Dice Pools: Interrogation, Empathy, Subterfuge, Knowledge checks
End Trigger: Interrogation is over
Opener:
The basement of the Hotel Vespera doesn’t belong to the living anymore. Once a place where washing machines churned and staff passed unseen, it now serves a darker function — the Prince’s oubliette, a concrete warren beneath the marble halls where the city’s Kindred enemies are kept until they are no longer useful.It smells faintly of bleach and iron. The air is cold, humming with the pulse of unseen power lines and the dim, constant trickle of water somewhere behind the walls. Each cell door is a relic of old Chicago industry — thick steel, bolted deep into reinforced concrete, built to withstand fire and frenzy alike. It’s not comfort. It’s containment.
Vanda Esposito walks the narrow corridor, the sound of her heels like distant metronome ticks against the wet floor. The faintest scent of rosewater follows her — her only indulgence outside the gloves. She wears them tonight, dark red Italian leather that gleams softly in the low light. They’re not the same pair she wore decades ago during her tenure as a confessor of the Sanctified, but the style is identical — high, elegant, and ritual in their own way. Putting them on was an act of remembrance, and of reclamation.
This was Bishop Morrow’s task. But Morrow — the once-fearsome Nosferatu shepherd of Chicago’s faith — has softened. The fire in him that once burned for Longinus’s grim gospel now flickers weakly, burdened by guilt and long nights of doubt. He speaks of mercy now, of balance. But the Prince demanded results, not salvation. So the Bishop, ever the politician beneath the piety, passed the duty to her.
And Vanda does not refuse duty.
She stops before the cell where Riley O’Connor is kept — a young Gangrel with dirt still under his fingernails and the feral restlessness of the newly damned. He sits on a narrow cot behind bars, eyes tracking her like a wary animal. The glow of the fluorescent tube above flickers across his face, throwing shadows that stretch his features in unnatural ways.
Vanda sets a small cooler down beside her chair. “Dinner,” she says lightly. “A gift from the faithful — though charity, as always, comes with a price.” Inside, the blood bags gleam crimson, stamped with the insignia of a Catholic hospital. Another favor owed, another thread tied in her growing web of obligation.
Her associate, Sarah Sawara, lingers near the door — quiet, deliberate, a dark silhouette against the hall’s amber light. She’s here to watch, and to learn, and perhaps to step in if Riley forgets his manners.
Vanda sits, crossing one leg over the other, the gloves catching the light like lacquered wine. Her tone is soft at first — confessional, even. “You were raised Catholic, weren’t you, Riley?” she begins. “Your mother prayed for you once. Still might, if she’s alive.”
The young Gangrel shifts, suspicion flickering behind his eyes. “How the hell do you know that?”
Vanda’s smile is faint, knowing. “Because I remember the smell of incense and guilt. It never quite washes off.”
It’s the same rhythm she remembers from before — the cadence of confessions, the delicate weaving of sin and sympathy. She listens more than she speaks, her voice low, patient, knowing when to press and when to yield. Slowly, he begins to talk. Fragments at first — Indianapolis, the bar, the mugging, his Embrace — but it’s enough to open the door.
Behind her, Sarah takes notes. This isn’t about punishment. Not yet. It’s about information — and leverage.
Because nothing in the Sanctified comes free. Not faith. Not forgiveness. Not even the truth.
When she leaves tonight, she will have his name, his story, his measure. And perhaps, if the rhythm of the old ritual still holds, his trust. Enough that one day, when she needs him to drink, he’ll do so without question.
The gloves flex as she stands, the old gestures returning to her fingers like remembered liturgy.
Bishop Morrow may have lost his passion. But Vanda still remembers what it takes to make someone confess.
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The air in the cell hums with the faint buzz of the overhead light. The concrete walls sweat moisture, and the scent of blood from the cooler fills the narrow space — metallic and faintly sweet, a reminder of what both of them are.
Riley sits with his back to the wall, one boot bouncing anxiously against the floor. The stake scars on his chest are still visible, pale indentations like warnings. His fangs threaten to slip without conscious effort — hunger has a way of loosening the mask.
Vanda sits outside the bars, immaculate in her dark blouse and long crimson gloves, hands folded neatly in her lap. Sarah Sawara leans in the doorway behind, silent and patient — the shadow of judgment waiting for the right moment to move.
Vanda:
“Tell me, Riley — do you know why you’re here?”Riley:
(grimaces) “Because your Prince is scared of a few ideas. Carthians talk about freedom, and suddenly I’m a criminal. That about right?”Vanda:
(smiles faintly) “Freedom is a dangerous word in this city. It tends to make monsters nervous.”
(she leans forward slightly) “You fought for it once, didn’t you? Before the Embrace.”Riley:
“…What, because I’m Irish? You think that’s in the blood?”Vanda:
“No. Because you survived something you shouldn’t have. That leaves a mark.”
(pauses, tone softens) “Tell me about the mugging.”Riley:
(shrugs) “Wasn’t much to tell. Wrong alley, wrong night. Guy pulled a knife. Next thing I knew, he was bleeding out and I wasn’t. I woke up two days later with a thirst that made whiskey look like water.”Vanda:
“And your sire?”Riley:
(looks away) “Gone. Said he’d come back. He didn’t.”Vanda:
(sighs softly) “They never do, do they? We’re all someone’s abandoned project. Even the Bishop.”
(she lets that linger, then continues, voice low and conspiratorial)
“I need you to help me, Riley. You’re not the first Carthian to vanish into these walls, but you might be the first to walk back out.”Riley:
(snarls) “You think I’m stupid enough to believe that?”Vanda:
“Not stupid. Hungry.”
(she opens the cooler, slides a blood bag just close enough for him to see the red inside)
“This is from St. Gabriel’s Charities — Sanctified hands, consecrated donation. It cost me three favors and a lie to get it. You want it, you’ll talk.”Riley:
(snarls softly but can’t look away from the blood) “Talk about what?”Vanda:
“Your people. The ones who still breathe freedom down there in the basements and warehouses. The ones planning something big enough to make the Prince nervous.”
(leans closer, voice dropping to a whisper)
“Tell me what they’ve been building, Riley. What they think will save them.”Manipulation + Persuasion vs Resolve + composure [2 successes vs 0 success (7 dice vs 5 dice)
Riley:
(hesitates; the hunger dulls his caution) “They’re not building anything. They’re finding something. Some Carthians say there’s a place — under the lake — where old Kindred sleep. They think if they wake it, the old order will break.”Sarah Sawara:
(from the doorway, quietly) “Under the lake?”Riley:
(nods slowly) “Something big. Something that scares even the ghosts. You ever see a spirit flinch? I have.”Vanda:
(eyes narrow slightly, voice low and measured)
“And what makes them think they can control it?”Riley:
“They don’t. They just want it to move.”A silence stretches between them — heavy, tense. Somewhere in the distance, a pipe groans like a low animal cry.
Vanda reaches for the blood bag and, this time, opens it, handing it slowly through the bars.
“You’ve done well, Riley. Confession isn’t about punishment. It’s about clarity.”Riley:
(quietly) “That what you tell yourself?”Vanda:
(smiles faintly, sad) “No. That’s what I tell the ones I don’t plan to kill.”Vanda stands, leaving the blood bags. There is enough there for him to sate his thirst, but not nearly enough for him to get his fill. She can't have him turning into a cat or melding through the floor.
She takes out the keys. "I'll check in on you soon. Stay strong. The prince is going to send his goons soon. If you stay true to me, I will see you through this." She offers him a half smile, sincere, before leaving the cell and locking the doors many bolts.
As she walks away down the hallway, she says to Sarah, handing her the keys, and in Japanese "Wait an hour, then do whatever you want. Ask questions, don't ask questions. Doesn't matter. Just mention the Prince at least once. I know he doesn't understand Japanese, so it will do nicely to prepare him for my next meeting. I only ask, he must be able to walk a little and speak afterwards. He doesn't need to see, or fight, or anything else. I'll visit him again tomorrow night, so you have the rest of the evening." She gives Sarah a crooked little grin, playful and knowing.
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Miko Umemura "Sarah" Sawano - The Black Rose
Dice Pool: Dexterity (3) + Brawl (Unarmed +2) (7) = 10
Potential Applicable Merits: Martial Arts: Karate(•••••)
Action: Preparing a victim for questioning by VandaBlood Pool: 12 [ ] [ ] [ ] [x] [x] [x] (Spend 3/Turn) [x] [x] [x] [x] [x] [x] Humanity: 4 Health: 7 [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] Willpower: 5 [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ]Description: Miko Sawano gives a small, pleased smile. It has been a while since she has had the opportunity to practice her hobby without having a specific objective in mind. In Japanese, she replies, "It shall be done, Vanda. he will be like clay for your crafting when you see him next."
Sarah enters the room silently, giving Riley a kind smile and polite bow. Riley is obviously confused about the presence of a traditionally dressed Shrine Maiden entering the room, "And who are you supposed to be?" He asks in a wary, hesitant voice. He receives no answer from Sarah; she has no idea what he said, and the silence adds to the apprehension.
Sawano sits in the traditional Seiza stance, legs under her thighs, on the floor in front of Riley, holding a sprig of green tea leaves; she has always enjoyed the scent, and a bit of ceremony always put her in the right mood for whatever tasks she has ahead. Silently, the Black Rose focused her unblinking eyes on his, maintaining her smile as she waits for the appointed time. Over the course of the hour, Riley asked several questions of the miko in his presence, but he received no answer: just silent, unblinking, dead eyes that her kind smile did not reach.
An alarm goes off on the flip phone Vanda provided marking the hour of time Vanda requested. Good. It was time to play. Wordlessly, Sawano stood from her sitting position. She took one step forward, resting a soft hand against his cheek, and in a cheerful voice, she spoke to him in a language he does not know, "Please sing for me, little rabbit. I wish to hear the symphony of your pain."
The blink of an eye was all it took to remove one knee, and then the other, from their sockets; it would not do to have the target running about [Leg Wrack x2]. Riley's screams of pain and surprise spread out across the Oubliette. Now that his legs have been disabled, he can only crawl away in a panic. To limit even this method of movement, Sawano next dislocates both of his shoulders [Arm Wrack x2] to remove any possibility of the kindred fighting back.
Riley screams in shock, "WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME, YOU PSYCHO!?"
The miko does not respond because she does not understand the question he asked. From her satchel, she procures a pair of pliers: a favorite tool of hers for dealing with kindred. Placing a sandaled foot against Riley's head, she holds him firmly to the ground as she removes his teeth one by one, starting with his fangs. She stores those two teeth away in a hidden pocket on her outfit; she loved collecting the fangs of vampires, the claws of werewolves, the faces of skinwalkers. Especially the faces of skinwalkers. The fangs of this kindred, however, would have to do.
After removing all Riley's teeth save for the 4 middle teeth, two on the top and two on the bottom, Sawano finally deems to speak once again to the target, "The Prince, I am sure, is enjoying your song, little rabbit. Shall we move on to the second verse?" Having referenced the Prince once, as Vanda requested, Sawano begins on her next project, removing his fingernails and toenails. His screams of pain are music to Sawano's ears. With every shard of the kindred the Black Rose removes, first the teeth and then the nails, she sets them to the side in an organized manner, like a computer tech setting each removed screw aside so that he knows where they came from.
Sarah looks to the side of the room as Riley lies there, weeping softly to himself. There is a small portion of blood packs for Riley to ingest so that he does not starve. She retrieves one of the bags and offers it to Riley like a Catholic Missionary offering water to a thirsty orphan. Throughout the experience, her kind smile remained, but her eyes shifted from enjoyment to cruelty. Now, her eyes reflected anticipation; this was only the second verse. The third would be her magnum opus.
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Riley O’Connor — Confession Under Concrete
The following evening.
I used to think hell would be louder.
That it’d scream at you, or burn, or smell like sulfur and bad decisions. Turns out it’s quiet. Damp. Concrete sweating through paint that never really dries. Turns out it’s a room somebody finished, like they meant for people to stay a while.
I don’t look up when she comes in. I don’t need to. You can hear the difference between guards and clergy. Guards carry keys like weapons. She doesn’t.
She brings blood.
Not loose. Not sloppy. Bagged, labeled, the way hospitals do it when they don’t want you to think about where it came from. That’s the first thing that tells me she’s not here to hurt me.
The gloves are the second.
Dark red. Long. Not practical. Not for a fight. You wear those when you expect to touch something fragile.
“You can sit,” I tell her, nodding at the edge of the cot. “I won’t rush you.”
I don’t say because Bishop Morrow wouldn’t want me to. I don’t have to.
Everyone in Chicago knows Alaric Morrow’s gone soft. What they don’t know is why. I do.
I grew up in Indianapolis, Irish-Catholic in the way that means guilt before grammar. My ma prayed for everything: parking spaces, weather, my soul. My dad drank himself into an early grave. I worked bars because it was honest work, and because at night you get to hear people tell the truth sideways.
The night I died, because that’s what it was, I was walking home after close. Three guys. Wrong alley. One of them had a knife and a look like he’d practiced using it on smaller things.
Something stepped out of the dark.
Not fast. Not dramatic. Just… present.
It tore them apart like it was apologizing to the night for the mess.
I remember thinking I was seeing an angel. Or a devil. Or a machine that had learned how to be cruel.
Then my soon to be sire was there. Face like stone left too long in a river. He wrapped his coat around me, pressed his wrist to my mouth, and said, “Drink. Don’t think. You’ll have plenty of time for that after...”
But that wasn’t the first time I’d seen a Kindred. I was still in diapers when I met your Bishop.
Decades ago, when Morrow was still sharp with certainty, he oversaw a sanctioned purge: a mortal family accused of sheltering a heretic Kindred. My family.. The order was clean, justified, approved by doctrine and precedent.
During the execution, my ma, dying slowly, already beyond fear—looked at Morrow and forgave him.
Not performatively. Not theatrically. Genuinely.
In that moment, something answered that forgiveness.
There was no fire, no voice, no angelic terror. Instead, Morrow felt presence—vast, intimate, undeniable. A pressure not on his body, but on his soul. He understood, all at once, that God was not watching from afar.
God was there with us, standing in our shitty little flat. And Morrow did not recoil from the woman’s forgiveness. He accepted it.
In that instant, Morrow understood something you Sanctified cannot afford to admit:
Damnation is not inevitable. The Curse is not absolute. And cruelty is not obedience. Every act of brutality—every torture justified as necessity—tightens the chains. The Beast grows not because it must, but because it is fed. Mercy isn’t enough to redeem, it isn’t enough to cure. But it’s enough to resist.
The Sanctified doctrine—that suffering ennobles, that damnation is fixed, that monsters can only glorify God through cruelty—was incomplete. Worse: it was convenient.
I finally look at her then.
At Veneranda Esposito. At the gloves. At the careful distance she keeps from the bars.
“You know why the Prince picked me,” I say.
She doesn’t answer. Smart woman.
“It’s not about safehouses,” I continue. “Or Carthian agitation. Or my little plans to see how far I can push the envelope before the city notices.”
I lean forward, let the chains pull tight.
“I’m a match.”
A calculated martyr the Carthians won’t ignore. I’m young. I’m visible. I don’t have an Elder’s shadow to hide under.
“And you,” I add gently, “are the knife they handed Bishop Morrow because he couldn’t bring himself to hold it anymore.”
I don’t spit. I don’t snarl. I smile.
“I’ll talk,” I promise. “About names. Routes. Who’s lying and who’s just stupid.”
Then, softer: “But when you leave here, remember this—if the city kills me, it won’t be justice. It’ll be ambition.”
“And ambition," I finish, “isn’t God’s work. It’s the Prince’s.”
I sit back.
“Now,” I say, “do you want my confession… or the truth?”
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Vanda stares at him. Maybe she just forgot to blink. She has returned after Sarah's time. Opening the bars, she steps into the cell with other kindred, putting down the cooler.
"You look far worse tonight. Clearly not Morrow's work. The Prince's pet must have enjoyed itself." She says it sorrowfully and she opens the cooler and hands him the first bag of blood.
"Your legs. You can't walk on those until they are reset. This isn't enough blood to do that."
She shushes him and looks at the door conspiratorially.
"I can get you out of here. Tonight. But you'll need to give me everything. Confession, truth, everything. You tell me the truth, and I'll get you back to your friends." She whispered it to him.
Vanda pulls a chair over to him and sits down, crossing her legs and resting her hands lighting on her knees. She clicks on an audio recording, one of the older ones that still uses a cassette tape.
"Whenever you are ready."